It has been some time

A blank sheet.  So many words run through my mind.  I haven’t really written in literal decades.

Granted, I have attempted to.  Silly blog entries pining for someone who didn’t deserve a second glance, let alone my heart.

A few nights ago, I was having a phase with my teenage son who has special needs.  He refused to get out of the car so, while my daughter kept an eye on and tried to trick him out, I ventured into my garage.  I had recently cleaned out a bunch of things we didn’t need anymore but found the bag.  It is a bag I have kept throughout the years, through moves, from house to house.  I pulled out the spiral notebooks and flipped through them.  I was instantly transported back, 30 years plus.  These were my psych notebooks from the community college I attended in my early 20s.  The writing had somewhat changed over the years but I smiled remembering the lectures.  It was, and remains, my favorite subject in college.

At the bottom of the bag was the Trolls folder.  If you are Gen X you remember the Trolls, plastic little dolls with heads of crazy colored hair.  Some had gemstones for belly buttons.  Apparently cool enough to use in high school as they contained my writings from senior year.

So I settled in and consumed my past in my own writing.  A style and flow I never realized or appreciated at the time.  Notes from my instructors encouraging my writing, praising the maturity.  Somehow, some way, those positive words never stuck in my mind.  I don’t know that they ever will as I am still my own worst critic some 3 decades later.

Stories summarizing an eating disorder I was battling at the time of writing, unknown to the majority of the readers.  Stories of my life I had clearly, purposely put behind large doors with large locks in my brain.  My nephew’s birth, my relationship with my sister, my mother, my family.  It truly felt like spying on someone else’s journal entries.  One prominent thing has stayed with me for over a week - where did that writer go? 

I loved putting literal pen to paper in those days.  Scratching out words, inserting what I felt were better words. It came so easily, just flowed from my pen.  And, it would appear, my teachers enjoyed what they read and how it was written.  

I miss the feeling I used to get when I was writing.  When I would let whatever characters, location, plot was in my brain flow onto paper.

Life happens.  As I sit here and ruminate, I feel like one second I was late teens/early 20s.  The whole world was ahead of me, the route I took was mine for the choosing.  A writer, perhaps.  Psychiatrist, very appealing.  Something medical - nurse, doctor - daunting but titillating.

Looking back from the precipice of my 52nd birthday, well, what a view.  None of the things I thought would happen did, and the things that did happen were never even a blip in my mind.  The life I have lived so far has been quite a ride.  

From my desk in suburbia Ohio, I listen to my son “talk” from the living room as he watches the latest Avatar movie.  Little kitten paws tapping across the floor as the fur babies play.  My 3d printer humming next to me as my latest ADHD hyper fixation brings to plastic reality a dragon I designed.

None of those grandiose career choices ever came to fruition, sadly.  The family, the husband, the white picket fence . . .  a daydream.  Instead, I took to heart the words of my father as he told me ad nauseum how corporate was the only real, respectable, secure way to raise a family.  The only way to have health insurance, income and any chance at becoming anything worthwhile.  Fast forward quickly as I segway - on his death bed, literally, he looked me square in the eyes to say “Screw corporate America Mis.  It isn’t worth it.  You give up your life and they don’t give a shit.”  Gee, Dad.  Thanks?  You’re on your way out and I am miserably stuck.  

He was right, sadly.  Long story short, I have traversed an interesting career roadmap.  Various industries, similar positions.  The fixer/nurturer - if you know me, I know you aren’t surprised.  Some conglomerate of operations, support, sales, finance, contracts . . . hours of work and learning and certifications and trying to prove myself to everyone around me.  I still don’t know why it mattered that I proved myself, but it did.  I was a single mom.  I had two baby daddies. I had no degree.  But I had a brain, I had a voice and I was smart.  The latter part still dawns on people with a great degree of unhidden surprise, an occurrence I will never understand.

Through all these different companies and positions and experiences, I never felt quite fulfilled.  Fighting to be heard and prove you are smart and capable at something you didn’t really love or feel passion for - well, it is exhausting.  And pointless.  

With more life in the rearview than ahead of me I realize now that none of it mattered.  What did matter, and still does, was that I proved to myself that I could do the things I found challenging.  That I learned something every day, still a need I carry, and that I provided my kids with all they needed.

The people whose praise and acceptance I sought through the years?  No idea where they are today, what they are doing, why they mattered - hell I can’t remember most of their names.  I don’t regret my life or my past because I am the woman I am today having taken a lesson from all the places I traversed.

All that to say, life is funny.  You spend decades doing what you think you should, or truly, what you think OTHERS think you should.  Then, one day, you wake up.  You are decades into your life at that place young you thought would make you OLD . . . and you feel finally confident enough to say that you need and want more.  That there is a person inside you that deserves to feel the sunshine before this great experience we call life ends.

I find myself writing, creating, expressing myself more freely than ever before.  I’ve launched an LLC in hopes of bringing my creations to the world.  May someone, somewhere find them worthy of purchase and a place in their life.  I create with love and whimsy, no pressure or constraints.  I let the little creatures and characters who have been with me in my mind my whole life have names and identities, little faces and friends.  And it feels amazing.

But this, fingers to keys, words on a white background.  THIS I have missed so very much.  I have decided not to pressure myself anymore - sit down, write a novel.  Of what?  Life with Will?  Life as a single mom?  Life as a mentally ill young woman trying to raise kids alone?

Meh, how about whatever comes out at the time I put my fingers on those home keys.

Now that I can get behind - no pressure, no expectations.  Just let the words flow.  Yeah, I think it is time to embrace this again.

If, one day, someone stumbles upon my mental regurgitation, I hope they take something from it.  Either humor that this human really was maybe a touch out of her mind (aren’t all the best creators?), or that maybe this human had a story that was relatable.  That she survived the worst times.  That she gives hope to people who feel like they can’t move forward.